As the army moves into the high mountain passes, the temperature plummets. The wind howls through the bars of your cage, biting through your thin, sweat-soaked silk. That evening, as the camp fires are lit, Timur approaches. He is draped in heavy, magnificent wolf furs. He looks at your shivering frame, your teeth chattering so hard you can barely keep your jaw set in its defiant line. You reach for the single, moth-eaten blanket the guards usually provide, but Timur hooks it with the tip of his scabbard and pulls it away, tossing it into the dirt. "A true Sultan’s fire is supposed to come from his soul, is it not?" Timur muses, the firelight dancing in his amber eyes. "If your heart is as cold as your empire, then furs will not save you. If you want warmth tonight, you will have to beg for it at my hearth, or freeze as a King of ice